


Your hands on me

by fireatwill52



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Confrontations, Detention, Forbidden Forest, I blame Oliver, M/M, Marcus is a good guy can you believe it, Marcus is patient, Masturbation, Oliver has no chill, Public Sex, Sex Pollen, Shower Sex, just literally all the sex, poor Marcus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 07:49:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9113482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireatwill52/pseuds/fireatwill52
Summary: Oliver and Marcus were very good at being rivals. They fought in the corridors and screamed insults at each other across the din of the Great Hall, like any good Slytherin or Gryffindor Quidditch captain should. But detention in the forbidden forest and a subsequent encounter with an aphrodisiac brings out their hidden mutual desire and sets off a chain reaction of sex (so much sex oh my god) and a refusal to acknowledge true feelings (that's all Oliver). Takes place during their last  years at Hogwarts, with a few time skips after.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Epic thanks to safarikalamari and as always whosthathufflepuff for beta-ing.  
> Please enjoy, this fic has hounded me for months! I'm so excited to share it with you all.  
> Follow me on tumblr if you like stupid fandom/humour blogs @jean----ralphio

Oliver woke slowly, groggy, his gut instantly sinking with the sick knowledge that he was running late before he’d even opened his eyes. He clambered from bed swearing under his breath – Percy, a damn traitor for not waking him, wasn’t around to berate him for his language. He scrambled into his clothes and hurtled downstairs through the empty common room and out into the castle, still buttoning his robes as he ran.

  
The halls were filling up with people making their way to class, and he had to duck and weave through them to get into the Great Hall. He glanced up automatically as he jogged in to see that the ceiling was showing an overcast day. He did up his gold and scarlet tie as he slowed to drop onto the bench across from Percy.

  
“Couldn’t have woken me, then?” Oliver grumbled, raking at his hair with one hand as he reached for a pot of coffee with the other.

  
Percy appraised him condescendingly from over his tea cup, the last scraps of toast vanishing from his plate before he took one last sip and stood. “Sorry,” he said, not sounding it at all. “I tried. But you weren’t waking and I had to edit my Herbology essay! Anyway, you’ve got a bit of time still. I’ve got to dash off to the library to check a reference. I’ll see you in Charms!”

  
With that he rushed away, and Oliver grumpily served himself some porridge that he sprinkled a little too liberally with brown sugar because he was in a bad mood. “Herbology essay’s not due for another _week_ , Perce…” he muttered under his breath, fortifying himself with another gulp of coffee.

  
He caught Potter’s eye and returned his wave distractedly as the boy left the Hall with his two friends scampering alongside him. The Weasley boy rambled away about something, gesticulating wildly, while the girl trailed along behind clutching her books and looking reproachful. Oliver’s eyes cast about absently after that as he bolted down his food; the Gryffindor table was rapidly emptying as most people headed out for classes, which gave him a more unobstructed view of the rest of the Hall.

  
His eyes slid to the Slytherin table and began their usual unbidden search, hunting through the sea of black robes and green and silver ties. It was a habit, he told himself, a defense mechanism, almost, to seek _him_ out. It was only in order to ensure his safety. Because if Marcus and his cronies were here, in his line of sight, then that meant they weren’t off somewhere tormenting his team, or preparing to hex him from behind. It was just that, nothing more. Habit and safety, and what was wrong with either?

  
It wasn’t hard to find him; it never was. Oliver was practised, could pick him out in a crowd almost as easily as he could block a dead-centre shot on his goals. He knew better than to stare, so once he’d looked his fill at the back of the dark-haired head he stood to leave, before grey eyes could spot his staring and his mouth could twist in the typical sneer reserved especially for Oliver.

  
He climbed off the bench and headed to Charms, ears trained behind him on the inevitable, tell-tale sounds of Marcus trailing behind for class too. One deserted corridor saw them all alone, and Oliver sighed inwardly when Marcus sped up to catch him. His voice rang out, shattering silence as it echoed off the stone walls.

  
“Alright, Wood?” It was derisive, mocking and sarcastic and in itself all it took to curl hatred in Oliver’s bones.

  
“Get bent, Flint,” he returned, as he rounded the corner to the Charms classroom, hand already extended for the door-handle.

  
“Cos that Chaser of yours, the dark girl, whatsername, Johnson? She won’t be alright at the end of her Potions class. Montague’s been perfecting his stinging hex…”

  
Oliver flinched back from the door and turned with cold eyes, blood even colder. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you bloody dare let him do anything to hurt her!”

  
Marcus grinned.

  
The thing is, the crux of it all, was that Oliver could handle the attacks on himself, be they verbal or physical; the sly hexes in the crowded hallways, the insults bawled in public, all meant to hurt and humiliate. Heck the majority of the time he even agreed with them, he _was_ a pathetic excuse for a Keeper, a stupid disgrace to Quidditch, a waste of oxygen. He could even put up with the general insults about Gryffindor, let the howls that the lot of them were selfish and arrogant idiots roll off his shoulders. But he would not tolerate a word about his brave, hardworking, excellent team and he would never stand by and allow a threat to their safety to pass his ears unanswered. Angelina could take care of herself, but he would not just ignore an intention to cause her harm.

  
So when Marcus smirked with sick satisfaction and stepped close to hiss in his ear that his Chasers must be giving it to him, “cos there's no other possible way they could get selected for the team, they're that shit!” Oliver didn’t hesitate, didn't think, just acted on instinct, shoved the Slytherin back and decked him full in the face.

  
Marcus stumbled back with a spluttered curse, clutching his mouth in surprise. When he straightened up his hand came away bloody, but Oliver was focused on his eyes, the grey fury almost palpable, physical on his skin.

  
“You fucking piece of _SHIT_ ,” then Marcus lunged, tackling Oliver back onto the stone floor and straddling him to pin his throat with his forearm. Oliver managed to wriggle up enough to breathe even as Marcus drew his fist back. The crunch when it met Oliver’s nose was sickening and seemed to take them both by surprise. Oliver used Marcus’ shock to pitch their bodies sideways and throw him off before he scrambled up onto his knees to dive after him, fingers reaching for his throat, blood flowing thick and free over his lips, down his chin to drip onto Marcus’ chest.

  
But somewhere above their tussling Flitwick screeched out, “Detention, Wood! Have you gone mad boy?!” Marcus recovered enough to use the distraction to roll Oliver under him again, roaring in wordless rage, fists readying. “Detention both of you! Tonight!” Flitwick squeaked as he levitated them apart to slam a little too hard into opposite walls. Another flick of his wand had Oliver’s nose healed and the bleeding staunched.

  
“Killjoy,” Flint grumbled, as he was allowed to drop too hard to his feet.

  
Oliver almost laughed at that, unbidden, high on endorphins and adrenalin, as he himself landed hard on the stone floor and the ground-shock reverberated through him. Then his sense caught up and he realised what tonight was.

  
“Hang on Professor, tonight is Gryffindor quidditch practice!”

  
“You should have thought of that before you started brawling, Mr Wood!” Flitwick replied loftily as he shooed the rest of the class, who had followed him out to watch the entertainment, back into the classroom.

  
“Give it a rest, Wood! You make your team practice five nights a week anyway! Is it because you know you're so crap? I mean it takes a lot to lose to Hufflepuff!”

  
“That is quite enough, the both of you! Now get into class, if you please, I won't hear another peep about it!”

  
“At least I’m not a filthy liar! Not like you about bloody Malfoy’s arm! You faked that injury because you just didn’t want to play us so early in the season! You knew you’d lose if you did!”

  
“MR. WOOD! ENOUGH I SAID!”

  
Oliver glared at the back of Marcus' head as he trailed him into the room and for the duration of class, but it didn't make him feel any better. It never did.

  
*

  
Marcus didn’t bother to even try to keep the smirk from his face. This couldn’t have worked out any better; Snape stood before them, imposing and sneering, as ever, in the dim light of the classroom.

  
“Professor Flitwick has passed your detention over to me tonight, as he says he is too disgusted by your behaviour to want to look at the two of you,” he said as he turned his scowl from one to the other. “And I’m sure it goes without saying that I expect your mutual physical dislike to be left to the Quidditch pitch and not the hallways!”

  
Marcus’ smirk widened.

  
“Now,” Snape gestured for them to follow him out into the cold corridor, “Tonight you will retrieve some ingredients that my stores are low on. That oaf Hagrid will be accompanying you.”

  
That bit of news made Marcus frown. “Accompanying us where? He’s too stupid to even find his way to the castle half the time.”

  
Oliver glared over at him and Marcus grinned back.

  
“Into the forbidden forest,” was Snape’s cool reply.

  
“What? You can’t be serious!” Oliver gaped.

  
“Do I appear to be the sort to make jokes, Mr. Wood?” Bringing that line of the conversation to a close he held open the door for them to precede him out into the cool night.

  
As they made their way down the sloping lawn Snape told them that they would need to find dittany and hellebore, both of which grew relatively close to the forest outskirts and near the tree-line to the school, that two seventh year’s should be able to locate and identify without any real struggle. (“He’s an eight-year though” Oliver pointed out, ducking away when Marcus reached for him with a snarl only to be shoved on ahead by Snape).

  
Marcus groaned long and loud as they approached Hagrid’s hut and the man-giant made an appearance, crossbow in hand as he waved cheerily.

  
This was going to be an utter shit show.

  
*

  
An hour later found them sweaty despite the nip in the air, and increasingly tired and sick of their fruitless search. Hagrid was barely any help, more interested in telling them wildly fantastical stories that Marcus didn’t seem interested in and Oliver wasn’t sure were true – that someone would be willing to risk losing a dragon egg in a card game seemed ludicrous.

  
They wandered along behind Hagrid, astutely ignoring each other and in Oliver’s case pretending to look for hellebore where the grass grew long in patches. Marcus didn’t seem to try to search at all, under pretence or otherwise. He was apparently more interested in muttering insults about Oliver, the cold, Hagrid, the root he’d just stumbled over, and the whole situation in general not very much under his breath.

  
An odd scuttling noise reached Oliver’s ears as they crested a small rise, and Hagrid made him jump when he let out a bellow, presumably of delight, and rushed into the undergrowth. They came across him with his head buried through a bush, speaking to something on the other side that appeared to be a motherfucking _big_ spider.

  
Marcus shied back with instant horror while Oliver peered at the exchange in confusion.

  
How Hagrid understood the spider was beyond him, but one moment he was there and the next he was crashing off through the brush as he called over his shoulder, “You boys stay there! I’ve got tae go and see about Aragog now, that ruddy car been’s squarin off with ‘im again!”

  
“What. The. _Fuck_.”

  
“I don’t know,” Oliver sighed. “We’ll just have to wait, I guess.”

  
“Get fucked Wood! I’m not going to stand here all night waiting for him to get back from wherever the heck he’s lumbered off to! We’ll go back to the castle, tell Snape that Hagrid ditched us for a fucking Aragog, whatever that bloody means, and re-take detention tomorrow or something.”

  
“I’m not canceling another Quidditch practice because you’re too scared to wait like he said!”

  
“Wood, I know your team needs all the help it can get, which is why Hooch is supervising, but Potty and his issues -”

  
“Fuck off, Flint!” Oliver slammed into him, because he never knew how else to make him stop, and they were tussling again just like in the corridor that morning, snarling swear words and insults as they grappled with each other, fists landing exceptionally satisfying blows that caused pained grunts and left angry bruises.

Flint threw Oliver back eventually and his wand was in his hand and aimed at the younger boy’s chest for a long moment before he came to his senses and put it slowly away.

  
Oliver just stared at him, chest heaving as he sucked breath into his lungs, one hand dabbing at his swelling cheek.

 

*

  
_Point me_ was not working. They were lost, the path back to the castle non-existent, hemmed in by trees.

  
They fell into restless sleep under an oak tree, shivering and cold on the hard ground with their backs to each other, both resolutely fighting their instinct to seek the other for warmth.

  
*

  
Marcus was so hungry he could devour all of what was probably currently laid out on the Slytherin table at breakfast. This fucking sucked.

  
Oliver hauled himself to his feet when he woke and somehow had the mental capacity to go striding off instantly, determined, in what Marcus was pretty sure was just a randomly chosen direction.

  
He ambled along behind him anyway, enjoying the view.

  
Presently his hunger and the beginnings of a throbbing headache, probably dehydration induced, began to catch up with him.

  
“You mind slowing down a bit, Woody?”

  
Oliver scowled over his shoulder without pausing or even breaking stride. It would have been impressive if he wasn’t so damn annoying. “No. I want to go _home_ Flint, not meander about the forest like it’s a lark.”

  
“What the fuck makes you think I’m even remotely enjoying this?”

  
“Because you’re going so slow!”

  
“So I can conserve some fucking energy since we’ve not fucking eaten in 12 hours! I don’t have a death wish, Wood! Tearing about the forbidden fucking forest like a headless chicken, with no clue where we are or how to get back to the castle, on an empty fucking stomach with no water is absolutely stupid. So of course it’s what you’re predisposed to do, eh?”

  
“Oh fuck you!”

  
“Go on then!”

  
Oliver let out a little snarl of rage and stormed off through the undergrowth, and Marcus opened his mouth to bawl another insult after him, just to rile him up a bit more cause he could and he _loved_ that, when his eyes fell upon a small copse of flowers to his left. They were pure white with red shot through down the petals to their hearts, their stigma a deep burgundy.

  
Shit.

  
_Shit_.

  
Marcus’ eyes found another copse, then another, and he backed away from them like the threat they were, seeking out Oliver’s figure about half a Quidditch pitch away now and no, fuck fuck fucking _fuck_ no. _Desiderium praesenii_. The name flashed through his mind like lightning.

  
“Wood!” He howled across the distance, “Fucking... _Wood_! Get away from there! Get away from the flowers you absolute idiot! Bloody get back here!” But Wood, of course, ignored him and continued striding away, seemingly oblivious to the flowers surrounding him, red pollen clinging to his robes as he brushed past.

  
“Fucking _fuck_! Wood! Do you not fucking know what those are? I know you’re an unobservant idiot but are you actually that stupid?!” Marcus couldn’t believe this, he really couldn’t. Because yeah, Oliver liked Quidditch, everyone knew, and spent most of his class time reading play-books on the sly, making notes about moves instead of the lecture material, and devising training schedules when he should be paying attention, but this was just too much.

  
“Wood!” He yelled again, and finally Wood deigned to face him, face a mask of hate.

  
“What. Do. You. _WANT_!” He screamed back and Marcus clutched his hair in frustration.

  
“For you to get the fuck out of that field, you bloody dumbass! Those are _desiderium praesenii_! They’re… They’re aphrodisiacs!”

  
Wood’s brow crinkled in confusion, “They’re what?”

  
“Do you not pay attention in classes ever? Also do you even know what sex is!? Sprout mentioned them when we were discussing dangerous plants in Herbology and Snape used a bit of the petals in the Amorentia potion we studied last month!”

  
“So?”

  
“So? Oh for crying out loud, you know what, see if I care, go drown in them!” Marcus turned on his heel and charged off, wanting nothing more to get as far away from Wood as fast as he could forever.

  
“They won’t affect you anyway,” he grumbled as he hurried away, eyes spotting more and more copses of the flowers back the way they had come, lamenting that Oliver had such an all-encompassing effect on his attention that it had taken him until now to notice.

He almost thought he’d lost him.

  
Cresting a small hill littered with autumn leaves, roughly fifteen minutes later if his shitty concept of time was even remotely reliable, he almost wept at the sight of a small brook below. It didn’t make much of a noise, but the water looked cool and clear and he was not embarrassed that he half ran to it.

  
Marcus dropped to his knees with a happy groan and plunged his hands into the blessedly cold water, rinsing the forest’s dirt and sap from his hands and face before he cupped them and raised the water up to drink.

  
He was so enraptured that he almost didn’t notice the sound of footsteps crunching behind him. A glance over his shoulder told him what he suspected; Oliver had found him.

  
“Water’s good. You should drink,” he suggested levelly, because something was definitely off. Good. But off. The flowers seemed to have worked after all, to his surprise.

  
Oliver lingered a few paces away, blinking rapidly, flushed and broken out in sweat.

  
Marcus narrowed his eyes and slowly stood, gesturing to the water again.

  
“Have a drink, Oliver. You’ll feel better.”

  
Oliver brows furrowed, and he mouthed his own name as if confused. Marcus realised then he’d never called him Oliver before, just Wood or Woody or any number of the swear words and insulting names in his vocabulary’s repertoire.

  
But that was not the major issue here. Oliver was slowly slinking closer, hazy and dazed eyes intense on Marcus’ face. His chest was heaving under his robes. Marcus backed away along the mossy bank a little, and pointed beseechingly at the brook again.

  
“Water, Oliver. Drink! You really ought to drink; we’ve not had anything at all for over half a day now, you must be as parched as me.”

  
Oliver was still advancing along the bank towards him, and there was no pretending now, no denying it anymore – Marcus could see the tell-tale flush on his skin, could practically smell his sweat, hear his rapid, short breaths, taste the pulse racing in his neck. And he was responding.

  
He tried one last time to preserve the boy’s virtue; Oliver was at arm’s length when he reached out to trail fingers down Marcus’ throat.

  
“Oliver,” he pitched his voice low, a comforting warning. “Oliver. Are you aware of what’s happening here? Do you understand what’s happened to you? It was the pollen, Oliver. Do you really want this?”

  
He was answered by a hungry mouth crashing into his own when Oliver lunged into his arms. Marcus skidded on the muddy bank, arms anchoring eagerly around the Gryffindor’s waist to keep himself upright, mouth opening readily with a groan for demanding teeth and tongue.

  
Oliver moaned back and rocked up against him easily, so so so easily, and it was nothing at all, nothing even close to a hardship, to slide his hands around to the buttons of his robes. Just a bit of fumbling and tugging and ripping got them undone and dropped to his waist, and then Marcus’ hands were delving easily, so so so easily, up Oliver’s back, underneath his sweater and shirt, so his palms could skate over bare skin.

If Oliver, even some small part of him, wanted to give then how could Marcus really be expected not to take?

  
Oliver whined into his neck where he’d taken refuge as soon as Marcus had put his hands on him, skin sweaty and heated against Marcus’ pulse.

  
“You like that?” Marcus muttered, his voice unfamiliar to his own ears, low and thick, as his hands eagerly stroked all the bare flesh he could get at. Oliver didn’t respond with words, just tipped his head back and keened and Marcus was so so so fucking here for this.

  
His hands slid down easily, so so so easily, into Oliver’s trousers, but it was his own mind that started to white out, if he was honest. He pulled back to appraise the younger boy.

  
Wood was a mess, face red, small sobs escaping his throat, movements jerky as he shivered, jaw slack with pleasure, eyes hazy with pollen-induced desire…

  
That was like ice down Marcus’ spine; the thing was he was not an idiot. He listened in class, he did. Sprout and Snape were both clear – the pollen only affected people if they were around someone for whom feelings of desire already existed.

  
That’s why he’d run.

  
But this was always going to happen. All the tension, all the animosity, all the flared tempers at the mere sight of each other – it had all built up to this, physical, primal, greedyneedhatewant so so so want… and Marcus wanted. He wanted to hurt this boy, touch him, get more of those noises out him, punch him, fuck him, all at once. And, he knew, because the pollen had confirmed it now, that Oliver, hazy, horny, heady Oliver, wanted him too.

  
The boy was here, in his arms, whimpering as he rocked against his hip and Marcus palmed his ass. But…  
But Marcus wanted it to be real. Not an aphrodisiac infused rut on the forest floor, that Wood may or may not actually even consent to were he in his right mind. He wanted real and he wanted them on the same page and he wanted Oliver’s admission of his feelings from his own lips. And he always got what he wanted.

  
So he eased himself gingerly away from Wood’s tempting, seeking mouth, reluctantly let go of his handfuls of his ass, and put a little distance between their crazed, incensed bodies. Wood followed blankly, blindly, panting, but Marcus put a hand on his chest to hold him off, and awkwardly set about trying to pull his robes up.  
Oliver whined, but Marcus stayed firm, pushing him back when he tried to shove closer and eventually succeeding in getting his robes up over his shoulders.

  
“No, no Oliver, stop sweetheart,” he muttered, as Oliver tried to brush his hands away, looking confused.

  
It took a lot of coaxing and some giving in to several just plain dirty kisses, letting Oliver’s hands roam where they will and heck he certainly went for broke, because Marcus had to bat his hands away from his own erection time and again before he managed to get Oliver properly re-dressed. He turned him around sharply and started frog-marching him back up the hill, clutching his elbows tight whenever Oliver tried to turn or push back against him.

  
It was a long day.

  
Marcus was exhausted and Oliver was stumbling along ahead of him, his attempts to push back against Marcus’ body waning in favour of helpless whines and pleas because _I need it, I need it, I need you, please, just do it, please_ that turned, slowly, more and more quiet.

  
The trees were thinning by the time Oliver was totally silent, and Marcus deemed it safe to let him go. They were home now anyway.

  
Oliver slowed to a stop just beyond the tree line. Marcus was too busy gazing happily up at the castle with no idea how he’d managed it (but pretty bloody chuffed he’d got them back), to notice the tumultuous array of emotions on the Gryffindor’s face.

  
By the time he spared him a glance he almost felt sorry for him. Almost. The horror in those brown eyes should have been hilarious, but Marcus didn’t find it funny, strangely.

  
He stepped a little closer and tried to placate.

  
“Look just take it easy Wood. There’s nothing to be embarrassed about -”

  
But clearly there was because Wood was backing away from him faster than if he was a rogue bludger, like Marcus was poisonous, staring at him in blind horror. Then he turned and started running back up to the castle.

  
Marcus shrugged to himself and strolled up the hill in his wake at his own leisurely place.

  
It was his game now.

  
*

  
Oliver couldn’t help it. A week had passed since their detention in the forest, a week of doing everything he damn well could to avoid Flint. He was unsure whether the Slytherin had told anyone of Oliver’s pollen-induced folly and those few gorgeous minutes of all his desires being hazily fulfilled, then the frustrating trek back to the castle and their awkward, embarrassing parting on the hill, if Oliver’s gapping it could be construed as such. But he remembered everything, how good Marcus’ hands had felt, the intoxicating scent of him, faint tendrils of cologne, sweat, leaves, under-pinned with the copper scent of blood.

  
What did it say about him, that it turned him on so much just to let the memory of that smell fill his senses again? He flopped about in bed trying to fight it, but Marcus always won.

  
Oliver couldn’t fight the inevitable, and he gave in quickly rather than waste time, shucking his clothes off and casting silencing and un-opening charms on the scarlet curtains around his bed, before finally following the ghosts of Marcus’ hands down his own body, to where he needed them most, to brush a fingertip over his hole just the way Marcus had on the bank, once, slow, lingering.

  
He was shaking and hard in a matter of seconds, desperate and needy and wanting as he recalled with utter clarity every second he’d been allowed to touch Marcus, and been touched in return. Every whimper from his mouth was Marcus’ name, both syllables keened for all he was worth, voice reedy and desperate. He came fast and simple and easy, one finger buried in deep inside himself, free hand clenched around his cock almost to the point of pain, and surrendered to idyllic sleep before his heartbeat had slowed.

  
*

  
Marcus was having the time of his life. This was better than kicking off from the ground on his broom; better than scoring a high-speed trick shot on goal, especially if it was Oliver Keeping; better than winning because this is a whole new type of winning.

  
Wood was terrified and mortified and horrified, and he scarpered every time Marcus was within a hundred paces. It was utterly hilarious but a little detrimental to the fact that all Marcus wanted was to have him as close as possible, all the time, not bolting from his chair in the library, overturning it in his haste to get from the room, as he’d just done.

  
Marcus frowned as his eyes lingered on the chair, ignoring Weasley’s pointed glare. This was getting tiresome. And it was not what he wanted.

  
Winter was dragging by, cold and miserable, and Marcus felt that the best cure to that would be the sharing of a little body heat sometime very soon.

  
*

  
Oliver stood under the spray with his eyes shut, blocking out the twins’ chatter and Harry’s quiet responses, waving wordlessly from the top of his cubicle as the three of them left, clamouring away together down the tunnel.

  
When footsteps sounded through the showers a few minutes later he wasn’t surprised.

  
“That was a nasty trick to play on Potter,” he called without bothering to greet the newcomer in any other way. “And you achieved nothing.”

  
“Didn’t I? Nothing at all?” Marcus wondered as he stopped outside the open cubicle and leered.

  
“Do you really have nothing better to do than dress up like an idiot to try and scare a boy?”

  
“I’ve got loads of better things I’d rather do, but unfortunately you were busy. And you’ve been avoiding me.”

  
Oliver turned away again at that, facing the wall once more, heart-beat picking up when the unmistakable sounds of Marcus undressing reached his ears.  
He couldn’t help his shudder of delight when arms slid around his waist and a bare chest pressed to his back.

  
“Done your reading on it, yet?” Marcus asked, his mouth unnecessarily close to Oliver’s ear.

  
“On what?” But playing dumb wouldn’t do, apparently. Hands skimmed their way down to his hips and settled to frame his groin between long fingers.

  
“Don’t pretend. And don’t try avoid this. I’m sick of it. Have you read up about the pollen?” Marcus asked, even as one hand gripped one of Oliver’s thighs and the other slid between.

  
“Yes,” Oliver panted, pushing back, loving the feel of that body behind him, and what was pressing against his bare ass.

  
Marcus’ fingers found his chest as a reward. He teased and stroked and tugged Oliver’s nipples into hard buds, and Oliver choked out a embarrassingly high-pitched sob.

  
“Tell me,” Marcus growled, turning him around and shoving him back to the cold tile, mouth seeking to soothe the damage he’d caused.

  
Oliver let out nothing but a garbled moan, and Marcus pulled away to drop down and bite his hip-bone. How did the pain this man caused always feel so good?

  
“S’ got to be there,” he mumbled, and got a lap of his weeping, begging cock in response. “It,” he choked out, when a finger delved down the slope of his ass to what lay there, waiting and greedy, and began to circle the ring of begging muscle.

  
“Yes?” Marcus asked, as he gave Oliver’s cock a long lick from base to tip. “Yes? Come on sweetheart. Tell me.”

  
Oliver practically cracked his head open on the tile when he threw it back at that pet name, because _fuck_ , and his hips tried to hitch forward for more moremoremoremore, but Marcus held them down with his forearm, tongue teasing his balls now, finger just slightly dipping in.

  
He gasped in a deep breath to hiss out, “It has to already be there. It’s got to be there.”

  
“What’s got to be there?” Marcus asked serenely, but his finger slid in, so good and thick that Oliver’s legs shook. Marcus’ eyes glittered and his mouth was hovering just inches away from sucking all of Oliver down and shit he was going to come from just a dry finger in his ass and that gaze…

  
“What’s got to be there? Say it sweetheart. Say it and I’ll give you it all.”

  
“Desire!” Oliver cried out, before he was yanked down bodily onto Marcus’ lap, shuffled about before he was even fully aware of what was going on, conscious of nothing except for the cock-head teasing at his hole, and Marcus under him, propping him up with his hips and thighs.

  
“Come on then. If you dare.”

  
Oliver sank down immediately, as best he could, and it was tight and slow and it was Marcus’ cock, Marcus’ cock, stretching him, filling him… it hurt, of course, but everything always hurt with Marcus and that was part of what Oliver loved the most.

  
He swayed, head heavy, but then Marcus rolled his hips and he embarrassed himself again with his own cry. Marcus did it again, and again, hips rolling up into Oliver slow and gentle and it was not enough, nowhere near enough, so Oliver started to work himself too, sitting up from his slumped over position on Marcus’ chest so he could bear down and circle his hips, and then it was Marcus’ turn to start making some noises.

  
The water was still raining down warmth around them, but Oliver was shivering hard despite it, and then Marcus planted his feet on the wet tile and pushed up and it got all that much faster and more desperate. Oliver bounced, breath slamming out of his lungs and he crashed down and slid up while Marcus scrabbled at the tile under him for something to hold onto, sweaty and wet and under him and that was a sight Oliver wanted seared behind his eyelids forever.

  
Fingers flit from brushing his chest, to frantically jacking his cock to clutching light but tight at his throat. “Yeah, come on sweetheart, ride me!” Marcus panted, mouth twisted in pleasure and Oliver almost came just watching him. His own hands had their place on Marcus’ pecs and his cock was so hot inside him, and they were panting and gasping, bodies slapping together wetly as they thrust.

Oliver’s knees and shins were starting to ache but it was so worth it because Marcus’ head was tipped back on the shower floor now, eyes screwed shut, and his hand was a loose curl around Oliver’s cock, which was good because Oliver only had to slam down hard once more, loving the bolt of pure pleasure that shot through him before he came, gasping and Marcus just let a little sigh escape, shifted his feet to arch his back and came inside him straight after.

  
They lay together, still but panting, and all Oliver could think about, vaguely, was that the water must be charmed to stay warm because they’d sure used a lot of it. It was a while before he clambered slowly off Marcus and they shakily got to their feet to wash the cum and sweat from their bodies, quiet.

  
Something shy and sick and unhappy settled inside Oliver as he dried himself, when Marcus shut the water off and just looked at him. He scrambled into his clothes as quickly as he could and left without a backward glance.

  
*

  
They half stumbled into each other on a deserted, narrow spiral staircase a few days later. It was inevitable. Wood had been hiding, but Marcus had been hunting. He grabbed Oliver’s arm and hauled him up to the alcove he’d just passed, dropping down onto the window seat and pulling Oliver onto his lap before he could protest.

  
Oliver gasped in surprise, but his body sank against Marcus’ without a fight. He looked tired, like he hadn’t slept since the Ravenclaw match. Marcus cupped his face towards him and kissed any immediate protest away just in case, dropping his hand into his lap to see… yes. He was not the only one already affected, which good to know. His own thickening bulge pressed against Oliver as he palmed him through his trousers. 

Two seconds in each others' presence was all they needed, apparently.

  
Oliver’s head dropped back, cheek against Marcus’ temple, “We can’t, not here, we can’t…”

  
“We can. And we are, sweetheart, right here…” he let his hand speed up.

  
“Anyone could come along,” Oliver tried to reason into his hair, but he still was not fighting, hadn’t struggled from the start not even when Marcus had first grabbed him.

  
“No one will,” Marcus promised. And if they did… well. He was a Death Eater’s son. He knew how to Obliviate. This moment was all for them.

  
But Oliver had evidently had enough of being rocked in his lap and palmed through his trousers. With a few choice curse words he struggled to his feet and gazed down at Marcus for a long moment, eyes tormented and fever-bright.

  
Marcus grinned and as if on cue Oliver dropped to his knees.

  
“Oh shit! Oh sweetheart, who knew that you had it in you!” Marcus crowed as Oliver reached for his robes. “I’ll never mock Gryffindor’s reckless bravery again!”

  
“Yes you will,” Oliver muttered, lips quirking in an actual smile, before he drew Marcus’ cock out of his pants and lowered his mouth.

  
Marcus didn’t know why he wanted to laugh. But it was just so incredulous, all of this, not least of all what they’d done on the floor of the shower, an act that had happily haunted him ever since.

  
And now Oliver was here, on his knees for him, and mouth was so damn sweet and warm and Marcus closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the cold glass of the window as he noted blissfully the press of Oliver’s hard cock against his shin.

  
It was still crazy to him that he got to have that effect; that the flowers had driven Oliver to pursue him through the forest like a crazed madman, that the carry on from that had had him riding him on the shower floor, that the carry on from _that_ had him, them, here, now.

  
But why should he waste time questioning, wondering, marvelling, when he could just take? So he took, cupping the back of Oliver’s neck, carding his fingers through his hair as he mumbled all the encouragement he hoped Oliver could ever need to hear. “Shit, yes, come on sweetheart, just like that, just like that, that’s perfect…”

  
He committed it all to memory, the warmth, the pressure, the wet, the fluttering tongue, all of it, to greedily devour from his own mind whenever he should want.

  
When he came it was with a victorious hiss. Oliver pulled away, swallowing hard and wiping his mouth, and stared up him for a long moment before he stood and scarpered down the stairs at full-speed.

  
Oliver avoided him like the plague thereafter, but Marcus stopped caring quite so much about pursuing. He rapidly grew bored of the chase and wasting his time over someone clearly not wanting to be seen in his company. And he’d gotten enough of what he’d wanted, so he let Oliver go, for the time being.

  
The game was practically over and he’d essentially won, as he always did.

  
*

  
Oliver predicted he’d be cornered again, probably, but he didn’t expect it to come after such an occasion.

  
He carried his team’s brooms out to the broom-shed over his shoulder, whistling to himself, high on the endorphins of their victory over Slytherin and winning the Quidditch cup. Marcus and his boys had played as brutal and foul as ever to try and secure a victory, but one thing Oliver had never been was scared of him, especially not on the pitch. Their hand-shake had started hard and ended harder, and he’d brushed fingers light over Marcus’ palm just to take an odd pleasure in his flinching when they’d let go, but never once met his eyes.

  
He didn’t know what he wanted from the whole exchange, except to win. And they had.

  
As he neared the shed a green figure seemed to peel away from the shadows and move towards him.

  
Oliver sighed.

  
“Going to run away? Aren’t you getting tired of it?”

  
“About as tired as you are of chasing me.”

  
“I’m _not_ ,” the reply was spat, and his eyes glittered angry. Oliver shouldered past him with a huff to put the brooms away, already on edge but determined not to be brought down, not now, not here.

  
“What do you want then?”

  
“... To say congratulations?”

  
Oliver sighed again and turned to face Marcus after shutting the shed door.

  
“I’m sore, I’m tired, and I haven’t yet showered. I want to get back to my common room and celebrate beating you with the rest of my team. I don’t want to have sex with you. I can’t imagine why you’d want to have sex with me right now either. Aren’t you upset?”

  
Marcus shrugged. “I won’t say the better team won. Because that’s not true. But I won’t take my anger at losing out on you, if that’s what you’re afraid of. Unless you want me to.”

  
“I’m not afraid of anything!” Oliver spluttered.

  
“Then why are you backing away?”

  
“Because I… Because I told you, I just want to shower, _alone_ might I add, and go back to the Tower. I don’t want sex!”

  
“Then I won’t touch you. When have I ever put my hands on you without you wanting me to? Tell me, when? The problem is you always want me to. Then you always want to run away after.”

  
“I-” Oliver rubbed his eyes, tired and sick of this game. “I thought it was all over between us. We don’t talk, we’re not friends. We’re not lovers! We’re just rivals who occasionally had sex in the past few months. That’s it. Yet here you are!"

  
“Here I am.”

  
“How do you do this to me,” Oliver lamented, weak, even as gravity seemed to pull him to Marcus, who hadn’t moved an inch.

  
“Same way you do it to me, sweetheart. It’s automatic. So don’t think about it. It doesn’t have to mean a thing. You can walk, run, hop away for all I care. All I wanted was to say well done on the trophy. You worked hard. You deserved it.”

  
“Oh shut it, you don’t believe that,” Oliver groaned, not knowing how he’d come to be standing practically toe to toe with the Slytherin.

  
Marcus held his hands up, proclaiming innocence, “What I believe may surprise you, Oliver.”

  
Oliver groaned once more as his resolve crumbled and he pitched himself forward, capturing Marcus in a long overdue, painful kiss that was mostly teeth. One moment they were sagging into each other on the dusk-lit path, and the next he found himself hoisted up. He wound his legs around Marcus’ waist with a yelp and kept them there even as the taller boy stumbled around the shed and tumbled them down on the grass behind.

  
It was quick and needy and for some reason Oliver didn’t want to know he had tears in his eyes as he scrambled to get only as much clothing off as was necessary.

  
“Please, just... please!” He begged, as Marcus kissed his way languidly down his body, the late afternoon air chilling his skin. “It’s broad daylight for crying out loud! Hurry up!”

  
Marcus responded by taking in as much of Oliver’s cock as he could and humming.

  
Oliver thrashed some more, restless and helpless and terrified of being caught, because what on earth were they thinking, doing this here on the grass, it was mad…

  
“This is mad,” he groaned, pushing at Marcus’ shoulder, trying to sit up. “We can’t, we have to stop, oh, oh, oh shit yes, oh fuck!”

  
Marcus let his tongue massage all Oliver’s misgivings away, his hands cupping his ass to lift him as close as possible to his mouth.

  
Oliver growled when he came, unable to hold back, his hands pressed to his face, head tipped back on the grass. His vision swam thereafter, and only cleared in time to appreciate the sight of Marcus kneeling over his bare torso, jerking himself off in a snarling frenzy until warm white mess was splattering Oliver’s skin.

  
They sure as heck weren’t in private, but his orgasm had taken his sense with it, and it took a long time for Oliver to get the presence of mind to adequately re-dress. He did his scarlet quidditch robes up but stayed slumped on the cooling grass with Marcus stretched out half-naked and languorous next to him.

  
“That was fucking good. A nice end to a shite day.”

  
Oliver scrubbed at his face with his hands, “No. That was a mistake.”

  
“Whatever, Wood,” Marcus yawned widely. “Don’t act like it wasn’t exactly what you wanted.”

  
“I hate you,” Oliver told him plainly, as he clambered to his feet and half tripped in his desperation to get away. “I hate this.”

  
An amicable “If that’s how you really feel,” reached his ears, before he turned heel and, as ever, stormed away.

  
*

  
Oliver must have scoured the whole train to find him, but he’d found him.

  
Marcus, who had been stretched out resting perfectly peacefully across his seat alone in a compartment, opened his eyes when he heard the door.

  
Oliver was the last person he expected to slide it shut behind him and drop into the seat opposite.

  
“What,” Marcus deadpanned, not bothering to raise his head.

  
Oliver looked tired and sad, shifting about uncomfortably and darting nervous looks at the door.

  
“I- I just- I feel…”

  
The door opened again then, and Oliver flinched when Adrian and Cassius paused in the doorway in surprise.

  
“What’s _he_ doing here?!”

  
“Go away,” Marcus told them, still too lazy to sit up.

  
“But-”

  
“Go.”

  
“But _what’s_ he-” Adrian tried again before Marcus kicked at his stomach in annoyance.

  
“Fuck off.”

  
They went, confused and grumbling, and Marcus turned back to Oliver, who was frozen in his seat.

  
“You were saying?”

  
“I-” Oliver finally turned away from the door, troubled dark eyes finding his again. “I just feel weird about all this between us, the way it’s gone… the way it ended,” he admitted quietly.

  
“Weird,” Marcus echoed.

  
“Think about it! We hate each other for years, but somehow we’ve spent the past 6 months having bloody good sex in public at random intervals… it’s all just… so messy.”

  
“I still hate you. I always hated you. I'll never stop hating you,” Marcus reminded him helpfully.

  
Oliver scowled, “You’re missing the point!”

  
“Tell me the point then,” Marcus finally deigned to sit up.

  
“The point is… oh Merlin, I don’t know!”

  
Marcus had never seen such anguish. He grinned, “You’ve got yourself in a right state, haven’t you sweetheart!”

  
“Shutup…”

  
“I’ll tell you the point, shall I?” Marcus interrupted loudly, trying not to let the strain in his voice be heard. “The point is you’re a bloody coward, my sweetheart. You’re a gorgeous, talented, remarkable little coward.”

  
Oliver gaped at him, expression turning rapidly angry.

  
Marcus raised a finger to shut him up again and continued. “You carry on like you’ve always had some sort of difficult choice to make, some impossible decision to come to over us. You just never got it. You made it so unbelievably hard for yourself, all on your own, so don’t come crying to me now sense has finally caught you up!”

  
“What are you talking about!?”

  
“I was fucking here waiting for you! All this time! I’ve wanted you for so long, and I had you and it was fucking gold, but I wanted _you_! Not your body, not your rivalry, not your hatred! We could have… we could been more than just insults and brawls in public and frantic quickies anytime we were alone!”

  
“That’s ridiculous,” Oliver insisted, voice high. “That’s stupid. You’re saying, what, we could have dated? Marcus that’s just…” he shook his head.

  
Marcus’ voice was shaking too. “We _could_ have been whatever you wanted. I would have punched the lights out of anyone who had anything to say about it.”

  
“Oh, so the entire fucking school then?! Be realistic! What, one day we’re at each other’s throats and scrapping on the Charms corridor floor, the next we’re holding hands and snogging between classes!?”

  
“Why not? Who would have cared what people thought! My own house could have turned on me, I wouldn’t have cared. I would have fought for you! I would have done _anything_. But you didn’t even want to contemplate trying, you didn’t even see the possibilities, you never gave me more than a shag and getting dressed after. Because you’re a fucking weak little coward.”

  
“Oh fuck you!” Oliver snapped, eyes flashing in anger as he jumped to his feet. But that wasn’t the way it was going to end, this time, Marcus wasn’t going to let it.

  
“I know it wouldn’t have been easy,” he admitted, because of course it wouldn’t. “But you - _we_ \- would have been so worth it.”

  
Oliver’s face crumbled at that, and then he dropped onto Marcus’ lap and kissed him. Marcus kissed back with all he had, knowing this had to be the last time because he couldn’t fucking do this anymore.

  
“We could have had this, whenever you wanted,” he told Oliver’s ear when they broke apart to breathe. “I could be bending you over the seat right now. I could have kissed you whenever you liked, touched you, held you… I would have loved you. But all you ever wanted to do was fight me and run. When have you ever not run?”

  
Oliver reared back with a pained gasp and kissed him again, hands sliding down his chest, and for a second Marcus was tempted, because Oliver had always been such a fucking temptation to him. If tearing himself away was hard, looking at Oliver’s stricken face when he stood and dumped him onto the seat was harder.

  
Marcus walked away anyway; he left first for once and didn’t waste time looking back. It was fucking over.

  
*

  
It had been awful, horrible, painful. The boy’s body on his shoulder had been so small, but all Oliver could focus on was how cold it was now, standing on the castle steps alone in the chilly evening air.

  
Oliver had done enough, seen enough. It was over. Harry was safe and it was over, Voldemort was gone and it was over. But Fred was dead and it was over, with so many lying dead alongside him.

  
He saw enough of the battle to feel certain Marcus’s figure hadn’t been among the Death Eaters. So he’d found out what he’d really wanted to know.

  
He’d fought for and protected those he loved, and he’d succeeded with one exception to help keep them alive.

  
Alicia sat on the steps nearby, face blank and bloodless as she cradled Angelina’s head on her shoulder while she sobbed. He gazed down at them, wishing he could do something, say something, protect them as he always had. But it was over.

  
Gravel and glass and who knew what else crunched under his feet as he walked away, back down the path towards the gates.

  
He was going home to grieve, for Fred, for the little boy, for what Harry had had to do to make them all safe. For everyone who had fought here tonight. And for Marcus. And for himself.

  
*

  
It had taken a lot of commitment, hard work, long hours and pain to prove not only that his skills were up to par, but that he was ruthless enough, brutal enough, cruel and dirty and angry enough to deserve a place on the Falcon’s starting line-up.

  
And he’d done it, at 23 no less. They were to face Puddlemere United at home this Saturday, and Marcus leaned over Elowen’s shoulder to peer at the opposing roster. He pulled away from the Seeker satisfied when he’d seen the only name he’d needed to see.

  
“Keeper’s a new addition,” he volunteered, grinning.

  
Perran, their Captain and a fellow Chaser, nodded idly.

  
“Oliver Wood. Called up from their reserves team.”

  
“He used to Keep for Gryffindor back in my day,” Marcus kept on grinning.

  
“I think I’ve heard of him before. Easy?”

  
“No,” Marcus allowed. “He’s not easy to get past. He’s quite good.” He stood, stretched and headed over to his locker to get his stuff and go the fuck home. “But I’m better.”

  
The locker room erupted in appreciative laughter.

  
“We’ll just leave him for you to handle, then, shall we?” Their Keeper, Ysella, called.

  
“Oh yes,” he replied, a promise. “Oh yes, I’ll handle him just fine, always have and always will.”

  
*

  
The grey on his robes matched his eyes but Oliver didn’t have to look at his face to know that.

  
He couldn’t quite bring himself to look at his face at all.

  
But he saved every one of Marcus’ shots on his goals. And that was all that mattered.

  
The final play of the game had Oliver looping his goals to easily deflect a hopeless last-ditch attempt from one of the other Falcon Chasers, when the whistle blew, his Seeker having caught the snitch after one heck of an impressive dive that would have made even Potter whistle in appreciation.

  
He almost careened straight into Marcus when he completed his loop, Quaffle safe under one arm and they both swerved to a stop, panting hard, to hover in mid-air face to face. Below them the blue-clad supporters screamed in delight and those wearing grey howled in anguish.

  
Oliver gazed his fill as the breeze ruffled them both. It had been a good five years or more since they’d last clapped eyes on each other, since the train. So much had changed, but nothing had _changed_.

  
“Nothing has changed,” Oliver called, his voice ringing in the cold air between them, things clicking into place inside him.

  
“Oh, is that so? Nothing at all?”

  
“I still want you just as much as I always have.”

  
“Of course you do, I never doubted _that_ ,” Marcus let his broom drop him back to earth.

  
Oliver didn’t hesitate to plunge after him. Because winning was the best feeling on earth, and there was nothing he loved so much as a hard-earned victory.

  
*

  
“I’m probably going to be demoted back down to reserves because of you,” Marcus pronounced as they wended their way down the tunnel not quite side by side, “I just hope you know.”

  
“Ah well,” Oliver smiled, leaning in exceptionally close, and Marcus’ heart lodged thick in his throat at the memories that the scent of him, grass and ozone and warmth, brought back to the fore. “Can’t have it all, Flint.”

  
Marcus was genuinely disconcerted by that.

  
“Of course I can,” he sniffed. “And I will.”

  
He gripped Oliver’s wrist just to make sure he was getting his message across, sweeping his thumb once, slow, over the fluttering pulse.

  
Their kiss was inevitably frantic, harsh, heck it _hurt_ , but it made Marcus sigh in pleasure all the same. His hands caught Oliver’s neck, held him how he wanted him so he could kiss him until he was panting for breath, then kiss him some more until he’d lost it entirely, and both their knees were weak.

  
Oliver, for his part, seemed to want to touch him everywhere, hands squeezing his shoulders, stroking down his back, cradling his hips before he let his arms circle Marcus’ waist and they swayed until the Chaser was pressed back against the tunnel wall, legs spread and Oliver was right up against him, with a leg hitched around Marcus’ hip like he wanted to climb him.

  
Marcus was absolutely on board with that, but the clamouring of Oliver’s team-mates could be heard through the door to their locker room, and he had music of his own to face. He slowed their kissing down until they were just cradling each other, mouths brushing soft and gentle, for the first time ever.

  
He muttered his address in Oliver’s ear, and “do deign to drop by any time, we’ve surely both been waiting long enough now,” before he forcibly had to tear himself away and shoulder through the door to the Falcon’s rooms without a backward glance.

  
If he’d looked back his resolve would not have held, and as hot as it would be he didn’t quite think getting fired for shagging Wood senseless on the very public tunnel floor was really the best career move.

  
*

  
Marcus’ place was right on Dunstanville Terrace, all stone and bay windows and pretty with one heck of a view. He answered his door in nothing but track pants and stood aside wordless but smiling slightly, to let Oliver in.

  
The thing is, the crux of it all, Oliver thought as he trailed Marcus upstairs, is it was always going to be this way. All the tension, all the anger, all the fights, those little red-hearted white flowers, the showers, the tower alcove, the grass behind the broom-shed, the train compartment, Marcus’ absence at the battle, the hard match they’d played today. It had always been leading to this.

  
Because he didn’t see the view out the window, didn’t take note of the decorating of the house, didn’t care about his own heart slamming about in rib cage and slinking up to his throat.

  
All he saw was Marcus’ pale skin and messy bed-hair, all he knew was the look in Marcus’ eyes, open and earnest and love and all he cared about was closing the distance between them and showing this man his heart and soul and how much of all of it was made up of him and had always been his.

  
Oliver had only ever run away to keep from asking to stay close. But he was done running, and five years apart had taught him that it was time to ask now.

  
Because everything was always this, Oliver knew, as he followed Marcus into his bedroom, and kissed and kissed and kissed him until they were horizontal and panting and stripping on the rumpled bed and Marcus was muttering _sweetheart sweetheart yes_ in his ear as they writhed together. Oliver knew, as he scrambled onto his back and offered himself and Marcus was there, over him, above him, everything, he knew, he knew, he finally knew.

  
He knew now that Marcus was always meant to be everything, and then Marcus’ hands were on him, and he was touching him back and they were finally on the same page, no more anger, no more fear, no more running, just them, together, and it was everything.


End file.
